We're fast approaching Christmas and I'm amazed to say that I'm reasonably well organised for the festive season. With the usual exception of a present for my Mum because (as always) she refuses to say what she wants. Apparently this is typical of all mothers, not just mine. "Oh, don't worry about me," is the catchphrase of all mums.
I have a theory: it's the last vestige of a generational memory that dates back 200,000 years. Mothers of all animals will sacrifice themselves for their cubs, but since humankind began to dominate the food chain, that protective urge has slowly been shed until all that's left is a nervous niggle that we cubs might get jostled while shopping.
This is what happens when I have no news. I ramble. And grumble.
Some random scans to finish on. These are a couple of the novels on which the Inspector Montalbano series is based. Mel and I are big fans of the TV series (and of The Young Montalbano) because it's so nice to see something that develops at such a languorous pace; the sun is shining, Montalbano is at his favourite restaurant about to tuck into a huge pasta lunch . . . the phone rings and the insanely funny Catarella will drag him away from his beloved food to solve the latest murder in the Sicilian town of Vigata.
Why do we like it so much? Partly it's the change of pace and the humour but also it's such a delight watching something that hasn't been inspired by The Killing, which too many British police dramas have been, some good (Broadchurch), some bad (Mayday). I haven't read any of the novels yet – I only have these two, books 3 and 14 in the series, and I'm a bit OCD about liking to start a series at the beginning. So until I can find a copy of The Shape of Water, I'll just have to trust in Mel's judgment that the books are well worth reading.